I get why guys don’t read dating advice books. What man wants to be caught handing in his man card at Barnes and Noble? Well guys, now you can become enlightened with anonymity. And for those of you who are not quite as clueless as the men I’ve met, I hope you enjoy a good laugh, and realize the competition out there is not as fierce as you may think. Ladies, enjoy. I’m sure many of you can relate.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

In all my 29.99 years, I've never had the sort of disturbing discovery I had last week.

Early Sunday the soft morning light peeked through my blinds, rousing me from a good night's sleep. I squealed as I stretched the last bit of sleep from my bones. I was ready to start my day. Five errands to run and two parties to attend, one of which would include lots of single men. It was a promising day.

I swung my feet over the side of the bed, gave the dog a good-morning pat and plodded off to the bathroom. I took care of business, brushed my teeth and washed my face. Then, I began the fourth ritual, blowing my nose.

Blow.

Blow.

Yuck. I need a humidifier or something.

Blow.

Wow, you don't want to come out now, do you, you little shit?

Blow, dig, blow.

Damn. What the hell?

I got all up in the mirror. Close as possible. That's when I realized I wasn't just dealing with a stubborn booger here.

It was a zit. Complete with whitehead. Inside. my. nose.

Now, as this never has happened to me before, I was somewhat at a loss. Traditional zit popping methods were difficult, if not useless. But, after twenty minutes of fretting and contorting, I finally popped that sucker.

So, if ever you have a big, nasty, posing-as-a-booger zit inside your nose on the same day you have the possibility of meeting Ms. Right, here is my advice...

Thursday, October 25, 2007

In movies it increases the drama. In football it reverses calls. On dates, it puts women to sleep.

I met up with 'Peter' at a coffee shop in town. We ordered our Pumpkin Spiced Lattes and found a seat near the window. We talked fairly easily for the first few minutes, but it quickly became apparent that I would be the listener (sleeper) in the conversation.

When I asked Peter a simple question about how he met his friends who live in my area (he lives almost an hour away), he said, "Hmmmm. Let's see. (looking up to the ceiling), I met Mike out about a year ago. (index finger tapping chin) Then....I met his girlfriend...aaaaand, then they moved up to Baltimore. Mike actually introduced me tooooo (tapping chin again) Todd and Sam...."

Every time I asked Peter a question, he pondered the answer as if I had asked him the meaning of life. But it was ok. I ended up inventing a little game...counting how long can I nod and say 'mm hmm' without actually speaking. Two minutes, fourteen seconds.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

I could pull out my hair and throw my date-ready leopard print heels out the window. No need for them. I haven't had a date in weeks.

This is how it goes. He emails. I email. He emails. I email, et-fucking-cetera. And still there is no date. I wrote about how penpals piss me off a while ago, but the men in my inbox continue to pursue a clickity clack relationship.

Aiming my heel at the open window across the room, a thought suddenly occurred to me and I lowered the shoe in wide wonder. Could it be? Maybe, just maybe? Am I being impatient?

So dear readers, I'd like your help. Especially from any (the three) men who read my blog, how many emails need to go back and forth before you ask a girl out on a date?

Sunday, September 02, 2007

We all hit rough patches. If you read my last post, you know I've hit one. But I'm over it. Really. And I only know that because I can laugh.

See, after I heard about the ex, I had a couple of days there where I wasn't dealing with it too well. Yesterday was one of those days.

When a song came on the radio, it was one that made me think of him. When I watched a movie, it had scenes from our favorite city. When I went to Target, there were aisles and aisles of students with his alma mater plastered on their chests (I shit you not. Dog food aisle, air freshener aisle, it made no difference.).

So yesterday was rough, but today I woke up with a new attitude. I remembered what an awful boyfriend he was and instead of being sad that someone I once loved was marrying someone else, I was happy that it wasn't me. I had a fantastic day making friends in the neighborhood and generally not thinking about the ex.

Then I went to Safeway.

Safeway has this policy where after you use your membership card, the cashiers read the name on the receipt and say, "Have a nice day Ms. So-and-so." Well, as I don't have a discount card, I usually type in my parents' phone number to suffice. Not only do I get the discount, but they get the name right ("Thank you Ms. [Dater]"). Well, this particular evening, I must have been distracted because I accidentally typed in my own phone number. The cashier glanced down at the receipt and said, "Thank you. Have a good night Ms. [Ex's last name].

Whoa. I must be hearing things.

So I check the receipt. There it is. [Ex's first name. Ex's last name.]

I must have gaped at that name for a good 30 seconds before my brain processed the random coincidence of it all. Crossing the parking lot, I threw my head back and laughed my ass off.

If there are dating guardian angels, mine's got a fucked up sense of humor.

Sunday, August 26, 2007

This month I have been stood up, unceremoniously dumped, and learned that my ex is engaged. Ouch.

Then, this morning, after only eleven hours to process my ex's happily ever after, I received yet another email from the Bitter Bob who gave me attitude when I wouldn't give him my number.

Subject:Oh jeez!

Message:Your back on match...didn't you learn your lesson the first time that emailing and not meeting makes match worthless?

I have too much class (fear for my personal safety) to retaliate and explain to him that I tend to avoid meeting bitter, whiny assholes who don't know the difference between 'your' and 'you're'. So I thought I'd do so here.

No, you won't know when the girl you are trying to contact is feeling down, but that's ok. Just don't be a dick. Ever.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Yeah, yeah, I know it's funny to see things that remind you of your penis. And yes, it's funny to take a picture of yourself with these phallic reminders. But, it's just plain creepy when you post these pictures with your profile.

In the past week, I have seen three different men who have made this deal-breaking mistake.

Mr. Posing with a Nude Man - Nude statue. Hands on hips, goods swaying in the wind. Next to him, the man who wants to find a date, standing in the same pose, thankfully fully clothed.

Mr. Cactus Penis - This man found a phallic looking cactus, stood over it, and smiled as he longingly gazed at the gigantic penis extending from his legs. Yuck and ouch.

Mr. Bull Balls - Picture this: Huge sculpture of a bull, complete with melon-sized testicles. The man who is attempting to woo women is laying beneath the bull so that it's balls are resting on his head. It's balls are resting on his head! What. the. fuck.

Friday, August 10, 2007

You were falling for her and she ripped the rug right out from underneath you. She talked a big game. You had a good feeling about her. Then she stood you up. She didn't call. Didn't text. Didn't email.

She's a bitch.

Do not blame yourself, even if there were a couple of things you would have done differently, they certainly weren't deal breakers.

You do not have my permission to waste another minute thinking about her. You get your single ass back out there and find the right one.

Saturday, August 04, 2007

Home improvement stores are the best places to meet strapping young men who are good with their hands. Ehhem. Urban legend or not, this belief lives on in the hearts of single women everywhere.

I happily hummed to myself as I strolled the aisles at Lowes, feeling giddy about some of those strapping prospects I spotted. Taking my time, I carefully selected my merchandise (stalked a particularly steamy customer), and headed for the check out. I was helped by a super friendly clerk who gave me a wide smile each time she made eye contact with me. Maybe, I supposed, she knew the real reason I was shopping at this fine establishment. I had a fleeting thought that I could really use a second job.

As I exited the store and pushed my shopping cart across the parking lot, I glanced down to make sure my potting soil was secure under the cart. That's when I noticed something was wrong. My potting soil was fine, but I was looking straight down at my ass! In all my strolling, my skirt had shifted more than 90 degrees around my waist. I twisted and pulled while trying to hold on to my cart with one hand, avoid being hit by a car, and stifle my nervous laughter.

Damn. it.

Man, woman, young, old, member of the Jackson family, or not, wardrobe malfunctions will get you. So guys, don't judge us too harshly and we'll return the favor.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Context: He's an alum from a local college, one which many of my high school classmates attended. We play the name game.

"So who did you hang out with from my school?" I ask.

He begins, "Well, I knew Scott ____."

"Oh, right right. I remember him."

"Let's see. Jessica _____."

"Sure. Sure." I nod.

"Oh, and there's Brian _____."

Thinking, I respond, "Hmm. Can't quite place him."

"And Michelle _____."

"Oh my God! You know Michelle? She and I used to hang out back in the day. She is definitely one of the nicest people I've ever met. This one time, in sixth grade......" Diarrhea of the mouth ensues as Ken politely nods and 'mmm hmms' and 'uhh huhs' at the right times. Finally wrapping up my story, I finish with, "Anyway, I just remember her being such a great person."

"Yeah."

Fast forward to Date 3:

Context: Discussing high school reunions

I offer information on my own reunion, "I went to my ten year a couple years ago. It was ok. There were a lot of people I would have liked to see who didn't show. Oh! But, you know who did? Michelle! And boy, she looks great! Sounds like she's doing well too. She's living in North Carolina and is pretty successful. It was great to see her."

Looking slightly uncomfortable, Ken says, "(Dauntless), uh, I don't know how to tell you this, but Michelle and I dated for about two years."

Firmly clasping my jaw shut so it doesn't hit the floor, I reply with a clipped, "Oh." What the fuuuuuck? Stupid, stupid, stupid. "Well, you know, she didn't look that great."

Fast forward to the day after Date 3:

As if the wound needed salt, I decided to pull out my high school year book to look up Michelle's picture. While flipping to her name, I came across the "Best" section. There she was. In full color. Voted 'best personality' by a senior class of over 500.

Monday, July 02, 2007

without adding your own thrill seeking to the event. I found this out while on a rather boring date.

Mid-drink, I had to go to the ladies room. I politely excused myself, relieved that I had a break from hearing about my date's learning disabilities. I passed one out-of-order bathroom, and descended the stairs to visit the other ladies room. As I approached the narrow hallway encompassing a single ladies room and a single men's room, I saw the line. Three women waiting and zero men. Typical.

2 minutes pass...still three women in front of me.

3 minutes pass...woman number three decides she can hold it and drops out of line. Sweet. One man goes into his restroom.

5 minutes pass...first woman emerges from the restroom, now one stands between me and relief. Man comes out of his bathroom, comments, "This one's free." (Mental light bulb beams above Dauntless' head) This will add some excitement to the date.I grin and shrug to the woman waiting in front of me and make a beeline for the men's room. Once inside, I decide I am crazy to do this in a restaurant/bar at 7:30 at night. After all, the patrons aren't even buzzing yet. My pulse quickens after I turn back to the door and push the lock. Nothing. Fuck! But I can't retreat now. I've made a commitment.

I hold the door shut with one foot as I squat and push my pee like I was Katherine Heigl. As the door handle begins to jingle, a bead of sweat forms on my forehead, but my foot holds firm and the jingling stops.

I quickly flush and wash, taking a second to wipe the sweat off my face. As I slink out of the bathroom, I give the shocked old man outside the door a sheepish grin, pass the ladies line (with the woman who was in front of me still crossing her legs in line), and head upstairs.

Realizing how many things could have gone wrong on my mini-adventure, I rejoin my date, patting my own back because I really got away with one this time.

A couple of minutes into our new conversation about home improvement, I bring my index finger and thumb about an inch apart to explain the size of the threshold between my kitchen and dining room. When I glance at my hand, I am horrified to realize it is shaking uncontrollably. I close my fist and try again. The hand seizure resumes.

My date raises his eyebrows at the recognition of my nerves, no doubt thinking his good looks and charm are to blame.

I can do nothing but put my hand back in my lap and say, "Anyway, the threshold is about an inch high." and make a mental note not to visit the men's room on my next date.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

I remember this movie from when I was a kid. The one where the guy tells his buddy that the way you know a girl is a keeper is if after you let her in the car, she unlocks your door for you.

Needing all the help I can get, I've lived by this rule for the past 15 years. Until last week, when I got distracted.

Date #2: We hug hello and begin chatting easily. He leads me to the passenger side of the car, unlocking it and letting me in. Impressed with his chivalry, I look up at him and smile as I slide into the seat. Crunch.

Immediately my grin drops as my heart begins to beat wildly. What the? I turn, reach under my ass, and grab hold of a mangled pair of sunglasses. As I begin to wrap my mind around what I have done, I look up and see my date fumbling with his key. Before I can react, he is in and he is looking at the destruction in my hand.

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Let me tell you about my Safeway. It's small, crowded, and regularly out of the necessary ingredients. It caters to singles, but more so the widowed kind than the 20/30 something kind. But it's across the street. So I go. Often.

After a quick shower, I realize I need some things from the Safeway. Hair barely brushed and dripping, I dash out of the house, sans even a stitch of makeup.

I grab a basket on the way in and begin examining the fruits and vegetables when I see a cutie by the oranges. He walks by, not a glance in my direction. Hmm. He must be in a hurry (Suuure Dauntless).

I see him again in the pasta aisle and he's heading straight for me. Alright boy, you better believe I'm gonna say hello to you. Mmm Mmm.Big smile Dauntless, big smile. "Hi."

"Hey".

Now we're heading in opposite directions, me smiling to myself, very proud of saying hello and hoping to see him again in the bread aisle. Still patting myself on the back, I arrive in the frozen food section.

Searching for some cherry popsicles, my focus shifts and I catch a glimpse of my reflection. There I am, in all my frizzy, pale glory, staring back at me. I am a mess. I proceeded to spend the next five minutes acting like I can't choose which damn popsicles I want while I use the glass door to desperately twist up my hair and pinch my cheeks.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Recently, one warm spring evening, “Riley” and I joined the throngs of neighbors already walking their Fidos and Muffins around the community for some much needed exercise. I diligently clicked and treated Riley, hoping to break her of her pulling and jumping habits as her trainer had instructed.

Inhaling the sweet smell of lilacs, I floated along, content as could be. That is, until I saw him. The good-looking neighbor from down the road. His arms were weighted down with groceries and he was 30 feet away and closing in.

My heart began to pound as I mentally reviewed what I would say,

“Hi” No, my nerves will make it sound too high-pitched.

20 feet.

“What’s up?” No. Too casual.

10 feet.

Shit! What should I say? “Hey”. I’ll say hey.

5 feet.

Just as I opened my mouth to form the greeting I had decided on, the slack in the leash became taut and I realized in horror that Riley had decided on a greeting of her own. Ignoring the treat in my left hand, she leapt up on the handsome stranger, front paws landing squarely on his stomach.

“Ooof”.

I immediately admonished Riley, but was too flustered to mutter an apology for her (probably because I hadn’t recited it).

After we were a safe distance away, I glanced at the handsome stranger’s retreating form, turned to Riley, and whispered, “Good girl.”

Sunday, April 22, 2007

I wrote a post a few months back titled, Don't Ask, Don't Tell. In that case, a guy asked me to a fancy dinner, then told me to pay. More recently I have learned that some guys need to learn to ask, not tell.

I met Bob at a bar not far from my home. After talking for a while, we discovered that we lived in the same complex. The area's great. Lots of grass and trees, with a path along a river perfect for biking and running. Shortly after discovering we were neighbors, Bob became a perfect candidate not for my heart, but my blog.

Bob: You live there? I just moved into that neighborhood. I live on the corner near the water.

Me: Oh yeah? The neighborhood's great. You'll love it.

Bob: Yeah. I like that bike path down there. Do you have a bike?

Me: Yep.

Bob: Tell you what. You bring your bike down my way and we'll go for a ride together.

Me: Hmm. That sounded a bit arrogant. What happened to asking? Maybe I'll tell him about the last time I rode a bike. That'll be a turn off. I'm not much of a bike rider these days. the last time I rode my bike, I actually had to get off of it and walk it up a hill! (yes, sad, but true)

Bob: Wow, that's pretty bad.

Me: Good. It worked.Bob: Well then, bring your running shoes down and we'll go for a run instead.

Me: Shit. Another statement.How do I say no to a statement? I've got to go to the bathroom. See you later.

Ok, so my exit was neither kind nor graceful. But, If you're telling me what to do and we don't even know each other, that red flag negates all rules of engagement.

Sunday, April 15, 2007

Rolling the dice in Vegas, fun. Rolling the dice on Match, not so fun. When communicating and subsequently going out with a woman whose picture you have never seen, you need to know your odds. Consider me your bookie.

If a guy doesn't have his picture posted, women know it's because he's 1. married, or 2. ugly. If a woman doesn't have her picture posted, it's because she's 1. ugly 2. married.

After a friend got burned on his fourth photo-less dated, one of my girls laid it out for him better than I ever could: "C'mon. It's not like her picture's not on there because she's too hot!"

Gamble all you want men, but don't be surprised when you leave the table empty-handed. Your odds of being happy with your date are about 10,000 to 1. After all, the House always wins.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

"I liked your profile. I'm a nice guy. I'm the kind of guy who opens car doors. I'd even text you to say, 'I'm just texting you to let you know I'm thinking of you.' That's just the type of guy I am. I'd really like to hear from you just to get to know you."

Steve emailed me again today, March 8th. His email went something like this,

"I liked your profile. I'm a nice guy. I'm the kind of guy who opens car doors. I'd even text you to say, 'I'm just texting you to let you know I'm thinking of you.' That's just the type of guy I am. I'd really like to hear from you just to get to know you."

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

So what if you just signed up for a new dating service because you couldn't stand the last one, but now you aren't getting as many emails and winks as you expected, so you keep checking to make sure your internet connection is working?

So what if admitting to someone that you're online dating feels like you're admitting you're a leper trying to find other lepers who will agree to have leprosy with you?

So what if you always tried hard to pretend your ex was pining for you from afar, but you just found out he's (I mean she's, of course) dating someone new, and they're probably snuggled up on the couch while you stare at your computer screen hoping to find someone other than your dog to love?

None of this makes you a freak. It makes you human. And be glad that you aren't settling for anyone. Especially that ex. Because frankly, he..damn it, she...wasn't all that anyway.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

I've heard this advice often, and I must say I follow it regularly. I look for unexpected opportunities everywhere.

One such opportunity arose for me as I sat completing paperwork at my dining room table.

"To the left, to the left, everything you own in a box to the left!" I belted out to new favorite song on my V-Day cd.

Shift Shift. I barely heard the dishes in the sink settling as I continued my duet with Beyonce.

Rustle Rustle Shift. Hmm. That's weird. Dishes don't sound like that.Rustle Rustle Shift CRASH. I got up to investigate what in the world was going on in the kitchen. The walls were thin and the neighbors were probably cooking in their own kitchen.

Rustle Rustle.

Sounds like it's under the sink. In the cabinet.

Cluelessly, I opened the cabinet door and immediately spotted a fluffy brown tail jumping around my bottle of Windex.

"AHHH!" I slammed the cabinet shut with a bang and ran back out to the living room just as my hunting dog came to investigate why I was making such a fuss.

I quickly grabbed her leash and my phone and ran outside. A killer squirrel was under my kitchen sink. I was not going to hang around and wait for it to push open a heavy wooden door to attack me!

As I called my father from the front yard, he assured me the squirrel was trapped and told me to go back in.

"Back in? Are you crazy?"

"It can't get you. Just go back in. You need to get the number for animal control. They'll send somebody out to trap it."

"Really?"

"Yes. Now go get the phone book. Call the non-emergency police number."

"Why the police?"

"Because they'll send an animal control officer out."

"You mean the animal control officer is a real police officer?"

"Yes. Now go back in."

"Alright. Thanks dad. I'll call you later."

Hmm. A real police officer? As in uniform, buzz cut, and gun? Sweet.

All cowardice forgotten at the prospect of having a hottie in my house, I bolted upstairs to my place and barged in. Dad was right. The squirrel was not getting out. I called animal control and was told someone would be over within the hour.

The next 30 minutes were a frenzy of clothes flying, brushes brushing, and makeup doing its thing. Next was the house. I couldn't let a police officer show up with the house a mess! Brooms, sponges, Swiffers. Soon both the house and myself were presentable.

In all of my frantic preparation, It took me a while to realize that I hadn't heard anything from under the kitchen sink in 20 minutes. Uh oh. I hope he doesn't show up and charge me with filing a false police report instead of asking me on a date!

BZZZZ.

He's here. Oh my God!

I buzzed the animal control officer up to my place, heart pumping at the prospect...

Ten minutes later I had good news for you and good news for me.

The good news for me was that my squirrel had gone back out the hole he came in. And I was able to patch it up.

The good news for you? While the animal control officer wasn't really my type, she was cute.

I figure some guy in the general area could benefit from that information. Now all you have to do is catch my squirrel.

And for those of you who don't live near me, I can only offer this advice: be looking. Always be looking. Even if it means you make an ass of yourself. No one will know but the readers of your blog.

Every day, there's your inbox, overflowing with girls. Short girls, tall girls, thin girls, wide girls, blond girls, redheaded girls, exotic girls, girls-next-door girls. And they all have one thing in common. They're interested in you. You begin to feel unstoppable. You remember gaping wide-eyed at the television as a kid, wishing you could grow up to be Superman. And you have. But lucky you, Lois Lane has multiplied by 100.

I went out with a man who was feeling a bit like Superman. However, he hid it well on the date and we had a nice evening.

After the date, Superman emailed me to tell me that he had a nice time. That's when he made the mistake of believing his own hype...

"I must apologize for my manners in not walking you home. I don't know what the heck I was thinking! Anyway, I didn't want to end the evening with any decisions that would have dampened our spirits."

What? Did he really assume I'd sleep with him just for walking me home?

It's ok to be confident. Hell, it's ok to be overly confident and think you can bed every woman who crosses your path. However, you must hide the overly confident thoughts. Truth is, in the dating game, you are not above the fray. Every one of your Lois Lanes has at least 200 Supermen in her inbox.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

"Yeah. It was an awful thing to do. I should have broken it off earlier, but it's better than if we had gotten married and then realized it was a mistake."

"Huh. So how did you finally decide to break it off?" (Hey, he went there. I was just following.)

"Well, I knew for a while that it wasn't going well. She was an anxious girl, not really my type. But, I had met her when I first moved here and we just kind of fell into a pattern. Anyway, it was actually her mom who nudged me into finally ending it."

"Really? That's weird. How did that happen?"

"Well, a few months earlier, I had become really close to her mom. See, her mom had been in a really horrible accident and was in the hospital for a month. I would visit her and help take care of her." Awww!

He continued, "We'd talk a lot while I was brushing her hair, clipping her nails, and bathing her..." Whatthefuckdidhejustsay?

I tried to listen to the rest of his story, but the vision of my hot date sponging off a middle-aged woman - whose daughter he saw naked on a regular basis - was so overwhelming, it effected my hearing ability. And although I missed the end of his tale, I assume it went something like this "Turns out, her mom was the one who was into me!"

Hey guys, don't bring up the time you sponge-bathed your girlfriend's mom. Duh.

Ample Alcohol, Limited English: "I'm rich. I'm very very rich. You can have whatever you want. This bartender loves me." Ample Alcohol, Limited English was physically thrown out of the bar about 10 minutes later.

Drunk Girl: "Scores is much better than that other place. The women are totally hotter. Hey, I know! Let's go to a strip club!" I may have had a rough year with men honey, but I ain't going down that road.

I'm a stable girl. Really, I am. I don't mope and whine about men and my lack thereof. I don't panic at the thought of going to a wedding without a date. And you'll never hear me shrieking, "Why Me?"

That said, today I had an irrational moment I mistook for a rational one.

About a week ago, I went out on a great date. He was flirting, I was flirting. Before the first date ended, he was asking me out on a second. He called and text messaged after date one. He seemed pretty interested. I, on the other hand, (rational girl that I am) did not get all, "He's the one" and whatnot.

Well, I'm sorry to say, Mr. Great Date stopped calling. Before he even had a chance to become Mr. Great Second Date.

Oh well. These things happen, right? That's what I told myself until a sudden thought occurred to me, I bet he lost his phone!

After about 20 seconds envisioning him calling out my name while searching the rain-soaked sewer for his phone, I realized how irrational I was being.

It's not the easiest thing to wrap your mind around. But guys, if she doesn't call, it ain't cause she done lost her phone!

About Me

I'm a 30 something (fairly) newlywed who used to blog about dating disasters. Having entered this new phase of my life, my blog is now centered around marriage and motherhood with a sometimes-side of crafting.